


really a girl's name

by funeralshenanigans



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, FTM Sherlock Holmes, Gen, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Texting, Sherlock-centric, Swearing, Trans Character, Trans Sherlock, Unrequited Love, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 11:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3976627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funeralshenanigans/pseuds/funeralshenanigans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr and Mrs Holmes had a son and a daughter. </p><p>Sherlock knew differently. </p><p><em>Mummy was smart, all mathematical numbers and he didn’t blame her for not understanding a formula that didn’t add up right; girls are girls, boys are boys and it’s so easy to find</em> x <em>when everything worked the way it was meant to.</em></p><p>COMPLETED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. just keep me where the light is

Cocaine was for flying; heroin was for forgetting.

With cocaine he was the man he should have been born to be, imposing and marvellous, and who wouldn’t listen to him? It was a man’s world and without the edge of a high, Sherlock was always skirting the edges of it, feeling like a toddler trying to peer over a counter that was much too high. His 7% solution opened doors, made him feel fucking invincible, sprinting across the sweaty streets of London in pursuit of one of her petty criminals, tackling him to the ground and would a girl have been able to do _that_?

Cocaine made it easier to bound his breasts each morning after his shower, made putting his boxers on feel like he was adding another layer to his armour, made wearing a suit make him feel _right_ for the first time in so many years. It slimed his appetite and kept his period at bay, the curve of his hips one more hateful thing gone. Cocaine brought illusion to reality, calmed his twisting mind, and made Sherlock be who he’d always known he was.

Heroin made him forget mummy’s tears when he’d shown up after his first semester with his hair cut short, suited and booted. It made him forget the way Mycroft had looked at him the first time he’d told him that his sister was dead and from then on, the way he twisted the word _brother_ when addressing him. It let him forget the way his father still used the word _she_ and _her_ around him, the way he’d frown when corrected.

Heroin blurred the world where children he’d attended school with saw him as he was now, unsure of what pronoun to use and opting for the neutral but brutal _it_ if they were feeling charitable and if not, then _freak_ and _pervert_. Heroin made him forget that he cared, soothed away the hurt, made deleting those memories as easy as breathing. Inhale; eyes closed, memories found. Exhale; blood pumping, error file not found. Sticks and stones and Sherlock was made of stronger stuff; big boys didn’t cry.

“What are you?” were the words that had him mixing the two together, Victor Trevor’s question ringing loud and proud the night he’d cornered him at a house party, two minutes after he’d shoved his tongue down his throat and cupped his groin, only to find something quite essential missing. “Jesus Christ, I thought-- _three_ years, Sherlock.”

The cocaine brought him _upupup_ , clever little replies tumbling readily (“Clearly, interested is what I’m _not_.”) and gave him the confidence to sneer at anyone Victor may feel the need to confide in (“Please, he couldn’t even walk straight, let alone feel anyone up; he’d passed out by midnight.”) and lie lie lie until it became the truth, because that was how truths started out, didn’t they? Say it enough times and it becomes real. Surely he was living proof of this? (and maybe one day I’ll be a real boy).

The rush of heroin dragged him sideways, almost like catching his breath before the rush of the tide pulled him _downdowndown_ , the whole evening being wiped clear until it didn’t happen at all. He was reading Chemistry and thought he knew how to mix the two correctly, but he was on the floor, bones heavy and the taste of vomit on his lips, and his only friend (smack, H, skag, junk; she went by many names) swept away his fear with a smile and a kiss goodnight.

“Oh, Sherlock… You stupid girl, what have you done?”

He woke up in hospital, breasts unbound and an IV in the crook of a pocketed elbow, body still vibrating with the come down. “I’m not a girl,” was the first thing he said when Mycroft made an appearance a couple of hours later. “And I’m not stupid.”

“A delayed teenage flight of fancy then,” Mycroft conceded in a tone that said he wasn’t conceding at all. “Do not do it again.”

He did it again. Not just to defy Mycroft, although that was a happy secondary reaction from his chemical imbalance; he just didn’t find himself immediately in hospital once more, having learnt from past mistakes. He finished university and moved into a dank little flat on Montague Street, a chemistry set on his coffee table, long nights spent in a curled up ball, shivering as he came down from impossible heights. He still felt like a child playing dress up and if Mycroft curled his lip _one more time_ when calling him brother, Sherlock was going to break.

Cocaine is the glue that keeps him together, stumbling across Lestrade for the first time and somehow finding himself under his wing, as though he was brittle and delicate and the implication is enough to make him bristle, words flying at a mile a minute because _obviously_ the dead man was killed by his wife, how can you not see the passion born from nothing more or less than a broken marriage?

Heroin quiets his mind, lets jumbling thoughts sway in the breeze, lets him think and breathe, limp limbs and half-mast eyes slumped on a settee and she was almost as good as the rush he got from completing a case until he was falling down, down, down and he cuddled her close once more, like a child with a comfort blanket, to slow his freefall because if he hit the ground, he didn’t think he’d stand back up and brush himself off.

That was how Lestrade found him one day several million moments after their initial meeting, needing his help and refusing to ask for it once he’d found Sherlock as he was. This was how Sherlock found himself in rehab, after being given the ultimatum: the cases or the drugs. He chose the cases because maybe it was time to leave old friends behind and embrace new ones, even if the prospect made him feel sick. 

The world was harsh without the rush of cocaine spinning him across the globe at a thousand thoughts a second, London and her streets gritty in a way he couldn’t recall, Tube rides making him jumpy because what if someone brushed up against him and _Victor_ happened all over again. The cases, when they were frequent, were better than a high and Sherlock knew he was magnificent and exactly how he would be all the time if he’d been born into the right body that didn’t require self-medication. The periods without relief made him itch for a needle but Lestrade was always there, keeping guard as he slept on his settee that had long lost its comfort instead of being at home and working on his failing marriage.

Without his old friends, remembered comforts, it was a slow progress throughout the years of ups and downs but he started to gain a little weight. Lestrade looked happier as the hollow in his cheeks filled, cheekbones smoothing and Mycroft almost seemed approving of him for the first time in years.

It was hateful.

With the weight, came fuller breasts, a curve to his waist that no one saw but him and perhaps with cleverly tailored suits, tighter binding across his chest, he could have hid it and pretended he didn’t hate everything about himself, fighting through the days; hurried showers and dressing whilst still damp, studying his face in fogged up mirrors. But when cramp made his stomach drop and he checked his underwear to find speckled blood there, the feeling low in his gut promising more, there was no more pretending.

He didn’t know if he was glad or not that it was Lestrade who found him.

He was high, manic, and he shouldn’t’ve used his old dosages, back when he knew how much to take to hit the clouds but never leave the stratosphere. He felt like he was orbiting the stars, a hand that looked a little like his taking a scalpel to one hateful curved breast, shirt discarded as he sat in his underwear, bloodied tissue at his groin, soaked through his boxers, tourniquet still tight about his arm.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”

Hands were on his, snatching the scalpel out of his hands, and Sherlock made a grab for it, his “ _No!_ ” strangled on a half-formed sob, hands slow, his back being pressed against the wall as Lestrade forced him to sit straight, his hand pressed firmly against Sherlock's chest as he tried to stop the bleeding.

“This is Lestrade. I need an ambulance at 26 Mon--”

“ _No!_ ” Sherlock lunged at Lestrade, knocking the phone out of his hand and he didn’t know how he’d missed him pulling it out in the first place. “I don’t need--I don’t need--”

“Sherlock, you’re bleeding.” He looked down him, taking stock of him now the scalpel was gone, eyes widening at what he saw, the phone now forgotten alongside his chest, both hands moving to his boxers. He sounded aghast. “What’ve you done? Jesus, Sherlock, keep still, I need to make sure you’re not going to bleed to death on me.”

Sherlock scrambled as far back as he could, an already painful heartbeat picking up speed, long legs curling underneath him, hands shoved protectively into that perfect little v-pocket and over his groin. “Don’t touch me!”

Lestrade paused. “Look, Sherlock. I’m not even going to try and pretend I know what’s going on here. But you’re high,” he glanced at Sherlock’s arm even as he said it and any other day Sherlock would be snorting, a sarcastic quip of ‘oh well done, _Detective_ ’ and its absence had him looking back up at him, “and you’ve hurt yourself. I need to make sure you’re okay because I’ve just walked in here to you trying to cut yourself to ribbons and, you know, it’s not uncommon,” he added, now glancing to Sherlock’s chest. “If that’s what the issue is here. Plenty of men have breasts - there’s an easier fix than trying to cut them off yourself. Right? So just let me look, Sherlock. _Please_.”

He looked and sounded so fucking earnest that Sherlock found himself laughing; it was a harsh sound, rough and pulled from places deeper than he was currently flying high above. “You don’t have a clue, do you?” He could feel his lip curling into a sneer and it was uglyuglyugly. “You see but you do not _observe_. Congratulations,” he added, pupils blown wide, “it’s a girl.”

Sherlock could see the moment he understood, Lestrade’s expressive face looming above his and he laughed at the concerned confusion he was seeing. He found himself being pulled into a warm embrace, the arms wrapping around him fierce, and he didn’t know when his hysterical laughter had morphed into heartbroken sobs.

He was glad it was Lestrade who’d found him.

When he opened his eyes next, he was in hospital and Mycroft was sitting besides his bed.

Three and a half minutes went by in unbearable silence. He broke it and he hated his brother for it. “Midnight vigil, Mycroft? Why, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I do.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it; his head snapped up from studying the pattern of the blanket to look at him. “I’m not dying. There’s no need to get all emotional, brother mine.”

“They had to resuscitate you. Twice.”

Oh. Too much heroin. _Clearly_. He should’ve stuck to cocaine. “Don’t let that stop you from berating me. I can see you’re itching to tell me how stupid I am. Let’s get it over with.”

“Sherlock. You tried to mutilate yourself.”

He felt his eye twitch. “I was high.”

“Do you hate them that much?”

“What?”

The first sign of annoyance flashed across Mycroft’s face and Sherlock felt a vicious thread of smugness in his gut. “Do not make me repeat myself, Sherlock. I find it terribly distasteful.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft nodded. “You have an appointment with Dr. Thompson next month; he comes highly recommended.”

Sherlock didn’t pretend to not understand. He frowned instead. “Why are you doing this?”

“And perhaps it’s about time for you to start hormone replacement therapy.”

That pulled Sherlock up short. When he’d last mentioned it, so many years and highs ago, the distained dismissive snort he’d got in reply had ensured he didn’t ask again. There was a long silence. “Perhaps.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Mycroft didn’t touch him. “Get well soon, brother.”

It sounded so natural, so fluid; Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed into the pillows. “Thank you.” It was quiet but the minute pause before Mycroft left let him know that it had been heard.

He’d been worried about seeing Lestrade, but when he came he opened the conversation by tossing a case file onto his lap. “I’m surprised you’ve not been driving everyone crazy, trying elevate your boredom.” He threw himself into the chair Mycroft had sat in days ago with an almighty sigh.  “I could use your help on this if you’ve got time, Sherlock.”

When his parents came to visit, mummy hugged him tight and dad clasped his shoulder like a man.

Mummy was smart, all mathematical numbers and he didn’t blame her for not understanding a formula that didn’t add up right; girls are girls, boys are boys and it’s so easy to find _x_ when everything worked the way it was meant to. But she’d hugged him all the same, and he could feel the damp of her tears against his neck, her words soft against the shell of his ear. “Whatever you need to do to be happy, darling. I will always love you.” She still didn’t understand, not really, and Sherlock couldn’t hate her for that; she was the absent mother type, though that wasn’t to say that she didn’t love her sons, but she couldn’t relate to either of them and so left them to their own devices more often than not.

If mummy didn’t stand a chance of understanding, then it was a lost cause for dad; confused and bumbling, he was by far the stupidest of the Holmes. “You gave us quite the scare, Sherlock.” His hand was on his shoulder, his grip firm and his words soft. It was easier to ignore pro-nouns altogether and stick to his name. Sherlock was an androgynous name as names came and went and it might not be what Sherlock wanted - was it so difficult to call him son? - but it was part of what he needed and surprisingly, he was okay with that.

The days, weeks, months, years after the surgery and sometimes Sherlock still can’t believe how each breath feels lighter and not just because he’s had those hateful things removed; inhale, unrestricted chest brushing against cotton; exhale, chest flat and buttons straining. He’d started wearing tighter shirts, some because it annoyed Mycroft and mostly because he _could_. There was no longer any binding tight across his chest, restricting his breathing, or dressing from the surgery, the scaring minimal and Sherlock had always been a show off. He’d accepted every case for three months that Mycroft tossed his way with only the smallest of complaints.

It was strange to be happy without a chemical high.

He went cold turkey again after his last instance in the hospital; cut all illegal highs, wouldn’t even so much as touch an aspirin _just in case_ , or light a cigarette, but it didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything, not when four times a year he was getting shots of Nebido and his skin was finally starting to feel like it fit.  The hair on his chest was sparse, but it was there and maybe he didn’t have to shave as often as everyone else but that was fine too, especially when he had a case or three on the go. What it all boiled down to was that he was happy.


	2. twice as much ain't twice as good

When he met John Watson, his first thought had been, “ _Oh,_ ” and that flutter in his stomach hadn’t been in the least bit manly.

Sherlock had a disgusting habit of showing off at the best of times, but when he met someone that he actually wanted to impress - an army doctor with a psychosomatic limp for crying out loud, how more interesting could you get? And Mike had brought him here because he thought he, Sherlock, would-- _could_ \--be flat mate material - he was sickeningly obvious about it. Deductions would fly out a mile a minute until he would inevitably turn them against him. It would be like university and every other time before and after that.

Which is why he was so fucking proud of himself when all that slipped out was, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and nothing more. He wouldn’t scare this one away.

Mycroft was currently being a dick, cutting off his allowance that their parents only let Mycroft take control of because he was apparently the most trustworthy out of them both (and maybe because they were a little scared that when one of his lows would inevitably hit, he wouldn’t have the funds readily available to bring himself _upupup_ , never mind the fact that he’d only done that _once_ and he’d been a great deal younger) and was refusing to reinstate it unless he a) took the case he was mithering him with or b) found somewhere else to live that was “habitable” _or,_ failing that, moved in with him.

Sherlock was not taking that case.

It went without saying that he wasn’t moving in with Mycroft.

He was no longer living at Montague Street - why his landlord had taken a sudden dislike to his experiments, he would never know (he suspects Mycroft trying to force his hand and he could go fuck himself, thank you every much) - and was instead spending alternate nights on Lestrade’s absolutely terrible couch or at Bart’s where Molly would turn a blind eye and bring him coffee when she both left and came in for her shift.

There’s only so much he can keep to himself, only so much he can hold back, more so when challenged. He doesn’t give the dust a chance to settle after rattling off more than he’d wanted to - surely it would have been better to stick with listing his faults, a cheeky question about where it was he’d served abroad - before he’s winking (God, _winking_ : he hopes Mycroft doesn’t have any cameras in here) and all but tripping up over his own feet in his haste to fucking leave.

He knew why Mycroft wanted him to get a flat mate - correction: why Mycroft wanted him to move in with him. It’s because he knows he’d never find someone who could put up with eyeballs in the crisper and it’s frankly insulting. Having the occasional cigarette, or spending days camped out on Lestrade’s couch without feeling any need to move or eat, was not a problem. Having thoughts - and that’s all they were: thoughts - that a shot of cocaine would make everything a bit more bearable, also was not a problem. Danger Nights weren’t Danger Nights at all, because Sherlock was smarter than that, thank you for the vote of confidence, Mycroft.

When he’d been high, cocaine and heroin alike cradling him to her breast, he’d been far from normal intellectually (and he wouldn’t have it any other way) but he’d felt right in his own skin, confident like he wasn’t when he was seven and tugging at his dress that had far too many frills, even for the eighties. There was an overwhelming, almost desperate need (one that he’d never admit to anyone) to be accepted and liked. And _god_ he was pathetic.

Which is why he spent the night after meeting Doctor John Watson who had a psychosomatic limp and an alcoholic brother with whom he didn’t speak to, pacing frantically in Barts, coming to one solid conclusion. He would move in with him. Why wouldn’t he? It was clear he wanted to live in London - he wouldn’t consider a flatmate if he didn’t, what grown man would? - and with Mrs Hudson giving them a heavy discount, right in the centre, how could he refuse? Sherlock could behave himself, not drive this one away. This is how he found himself texting Mrs Hudson to let her know he’d be moving in tonight. Her reply, ‘OKAYSHERLOCKILLSEEYOUSOONDOYOUKNOWHOWIDOASPACE’ amused him, but damned if he’d actually admit it.

Lestrade happily helped him move his things out of his spare bedroom, no matter the late hour.

“So what loon did you convince to move in with you?”

“No one. Yet.”

He ignored the raised eyebrow and instead gave him a jab when he stopped halfway up the stairs to look down at him. “No one and you’re already moving your stuff in?”

“Less talking and more helping, Lestrade.”

By the time they’d finished, Lestrade giving him one of those awkward one-armed hugs that he never returned but rather loved all the same before leaving, Sherlock was too wired to sleep. He spent his morning in Barts instead, drinking far too much coffee and over analysing their entire conversation from the day before.

When it all boiled down to it, it was frighteningly simple; a handshake at the door, a slight insult to his organization skills and everything was sealed when Lestrade turned up with a serial killer and John accepted his invitation to join him. The smile he gave John was absolutely genuine.

When prodded for an explanation of how he’d known the things he had about John, he couldn’t help it. It all came out in a rush and he felt like he was _proving_ himself to this little man sat across from him. And John’s reply? Who needed the feeling of being high when Sherlock had just found someone who actually could put up with body parts in the fridge crisper?

So of course, _of course_ , Mycroft had to try and ruin it by trying to scare him off. The utter prick. (Sherlock has deleted the fact that he actually forgot about John and left him at the crime scene, but the fact that he stayed even after that spoke more about John than it did about him.)

_I did as you asked, I got a flatmate. Reinstate me and leave John alone - SH_

**You have already been reinstated, Sherlock. Do not move in with him until all relevant checks have been made - M**

_Already have. Fuck off, Mycroft - SH_

With cases came the high, the thrill of being smarter, better, _right_ and he knew he was right about the pill, he knew he’d picked the right one and maybe he’d been a little slow on the uptake (embarrassing, he’d never tell anyone) but the shot John had taken had been absolutely breathtaking. Only a handful of people could have made that shot and he was now living with one of them. He was sure Lestrade caught on that he’d been describing John - you didn’t get to be Detective Inspector without having at least half a brain cell and no matter what Sherlock often implied, Lestrade wasn’t actually completely stupid - but he still didn’t call him out on it.

He was going to have to pay his tab for him at his local.

He took John for Chinese in lieu of actually saying thank you.

“So. Brother,” John said in between bites of his spring roll. “You have a brother.”

“I do. Is it really that surprising?”

“I’m just slightly terrified that there’s two of you out there." 

John’s grin took away any sting from the words and Sherlock felt a little warm. “Mycroft can’t seem to keep his nose out of my business.”

“He cares, apparently.”

“He’s guilty,” was his reply, waving a hand at John’s curious expression in return. Mycroft would always feel guilty for not understanding and Sherlock was in no mind to forgive him now or in the near future. “Makes it easier to call in favours.” 

John’s smile was sharp and filled with humour. “What kind of favours?”

“Oh,” Sherlock said on an exhale; voice low, one eyebrow quirking. “Now that would be telling.”

“Christ,” John laughed. “Living with you isn’t going to be boring.”

Sherlock took that as a challenge.

They had cases before “The Blind Banker”, with John tutting at the bills and Sherlock only going into a strop three times, his arm itching but only when there weren’t any cases to keep him occupied. At first his (not) addiction had started as a means to deal with emotions Mycroft told him he shouldn’t feel; emotions that were wrong, unnecessary and most importantly damaging and a weakness there to be exploited.

But those times he’d slipped, stumbled, leapt from the so-called sobriety bandwagon he’d put himself on after an operation that helped him to feel right (and the only reason he hadn’t gone further, was simply a case of recovery time: he could not be laid up for so long without doing something, he just couldn’t) it wasn’t because he didn’t fit inside his own skin. It was because he’d been bored, or his brain would not switch the fuck off - there was only a ‘middle ground’, so to speak, when he could occupy himself when something clever came up by the way of a locked room murder or similar.

The only thing Sherlock took away from that case is that he was John’s colleague, not his friend and that he hadn’t liked it when John started to divide his time between him and Sarah. Something thick and heavy had settled at the back of his throat when John had told him he was going on a date. It just so happened that his date - that he arranged - was also the suspected location of his smugglers.

“That was a truly terrible date,” John sighed as he threw himself onto his chair; Sarah packed off home with an orange blanket and her best friend’s arm around her shoulders. “Jesus, she’ll never talk to me again.”

“But a rather good case,” Sherlock conceded, unwrapping his scarf from around his neck, catching John’s look as he shrugged out of his coat. “No?”

John looked angry for a moment before he was laughing a little breathlessly, rubbing both hands over his face. “A rather good case, yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

Beaming, Sherlock vaulted onto the settee, flicking his shoes off with his feet, wiggling his toes in his socks. Head on the armrest, he looked over to John, upside down. “Hungry?” He blinked at John’s sudden frown. “What’ve I said _now_?”

“Said? What? No. You’ve not said anything wrong, Sherlock.” Shaking his head, John stood and made his way over to him, Sherlock sitting up as he did; John forced his head up by his chin. “I thought you were talking funny. What the hell happened to your throat--no, don’t move,” his grip tightened on his chin, his other hand poking softly at the bruised skin. “What did you do?” 

Swallowing, Sherlock tried to get out of John’s hold, batting his hands away. “Nothing of consequence.”

“It looks like--Jesus, it looks like you were strangled.”

“I am _fine_ , John. Do stop with the motherhenning.”

“Mother--? No, _no_. This is not me being a motherhen. This is me trying to look after a friend who has been strangled. When did this--when you came out of the flat, Soo Lin’s flat, I thought you were coming down with something. Christ, Sherlock, you can’t keep things like this to yourself. How do you feel? Vision okay? Breathing? Are your ears ringing?”

“Fine, fine, fine and _fine_ , John. As your colleague,” he corrected with a sniff, “I will be bright eyed and bushy tailed for our next case.”

“Wait, what? _Colleague_?”

“I’m hungry. Takeaway?”

“What did you mean by colleague?” 

“Chinese? No, we had that last week. Thai? The delivery boy owes me a favour, he’ll have it here in less than twenty minutes.”

“Sherlock.” John had put on what Sherlock liked to call his Serious Face. “Answer me.”

Making a frustrated noise, he stood, walking right past John and over the coffee table with long strides, picking up his violin as he did. He waved the hand holding the bow. “Seb. _Sebastian_ ,” he sneered the name. He’d never liked that prick. “I introduced you as my friend. You corrected me.” It wasn’t a mistake he’d make again.

“I-what- _no_ ,” he said, pointing a finger at him. “No. It wasn’t meant like that, Sherlock. No. You didn’t see the look I got being introduced as your friend, as though I was some tag-along. I was showing him that me and you, we were on the same footing, right?”

Sherlock wrenched a sound out of his violin that made John cringe. “Right.”

“No, Sherlock. Don’t. It wasn’t meant like that. Of course you’re my friend. God, of course you are.”

John looked uncomfortable in the way that said he was telling the truth, expression earnest underneath how much he wasn’t enjoying the experience of having to say the words out loud. Sherlock himself rather regretted bringing it up. “Oh.”

There must have been something in his tone because John’s shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “So. Thai?”

“Thai.”

When the next worthwhile case presented itself with enough dramatics to catch his attention (Mrs Hudson would not shut up about her windows, never mind that Mycroft had them replaced that day) he wouldn’t admit to anyone that John leaving that night to go to hers made him want to shoot more than just the walls. Mycroft’s texts after he’d left when he refused to take his case hadn’t helped matters either.

**Green doesn’t suit you, brother mine. He slept on the couch, not in her bed -M**

_You’re not as funny as you think you are, Mycroft. I didn’t know you were into clichés- SH_

_I’m not jealous - SH_

**Of course you’re not. But three’s a crowd - M**

**Too many cooks spoil the stew - M**

_Go away. I’m trying to solve a case - SH_

**Seeing how it isn’t my case: when life gives you lemons make lemonade - M**

_Make like a tree and leave - SH_

_Stick it where the sun doesn’t shine - SH_

_Put that in your pipe and smoke it - SH_

_How many more do I need to degrade myself with before you fuck off? - SH_  

**You sound like you’re chomping at the bit, Sherlock. Just keep your nose to the grindstone - M**

_I will look into your stupid murder if you stop with these texts - SH_

**England thanks you, Sherlock - M**  

_I hate you - SH_

Sherlock put John on the case, allowing him to shadow him as he worked through the various pips. There is no such thing as a coincidence, however, and Sherlock realises this halfway through their game of cat and mouse, sometime after the phone goes dead on the old woman. Mycroft’s case and his are linked and that’s when things got really interesting, because who needed drugs when this was his life? 

Interesting, that was, until it was John walking out and for one horrible, heart stopping second, he thought he’d got it all wrong, what had he missed, _John_ was Moriarty? But then, no, of course not, _stupid_ Sherlock, it was so much worse; John was wearing a vest stuffed with enough explosives to bring the whole building down upon their heads.

Until, well, he wasn’t. As soon as Moriarty left, he was ripping it off him, fingers shaking and he could finally understand why Mycroft said caring was not an advantage. He didn’t mind dying, in the way where it wasn’t actively sought but he never let the threat put him off, but he didn’t like the idea of John dying alongside him. So even though, yes, he would have pulled the trigger, blown them all up, his legs still felt like jelly, breath rushing out in a gush, when the inevitable was delayed.

“You left me behind.”

They were in a taxi on their way home as though they hadn’t just come out of a swimming pool after being held at gunpoint by snipers. Normalcy at its finest. Sherlock said nothing about the grip John had on the seat, his knuckles white. “I did.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“Yes,” John said, his grip relaxing a little. “You are.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments (and the kudos!) they honestly made my day. I just hope this chapter lives up to what you were hoping for. Fingers crossed! And so... Until next Wednesday, m'loves!


	3. dream of ways to throw it all away

While Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he told John he wasn’t interested in any form of relationship, that he was married to his work, it didn’t mean that there was nothing there. That he didn’t _feel_ things. They were confusing feelings, feelings he didn’t know what to with, feelings that (stupidly) always felt a little hurt any time John brought home his new flavour of the month.

Victor had called him a pervert, back when he’d groped him and found nothing there. “What kind of person,” he’d said, all sneers and rounded words as he slurred them past the alcohol. “Pretends to be a man? You’re sick in the head, Sherlock.” He wasn’t a pervert. As far as he was concerned, if he had to put a label on himself (and, _oh_ , how society loved her labels) he would say he was gay. As far as he was concerned, he was male and when - on the rare occasion - he found himself looking twice at someone, they were male; ergo, gay. Not that many had ever piqued his interest or any actually held them. He was a virgin for more than one reason.

But John? For some unfathomable reason, he was different. It was infuriating that he couldn’t figure out _why_.

The case with The Woman made Sherlock question every label he’d ever given himself.

He could have done without Mycroft’s attitude throughout the whole thing. From the (surprisingly hurtful) sneer against the fact that he’d never had sex to standing on his sheet and very nearly leaving him bollock (ha!) naked in front of everyone and _how dare he_.

_After this case, don’t bother asking me to look into anything else for you - SH_

**Oh don’t sulk, Sherlock - M**

_You nearly stripped me bare. In front of John, Mycroft. That is far from acceptable - SH_

**You are the one who refused to put on clothes and as far as I recall, it was also you who threatened to let go of your precious sheet - M**

_Oh, because you left me any other choice? - SH_

_You drag me from my home, while I was in the middle of a case, for some petty pictures? And then act the complete arse. Am I meant to be grateful towards you for repeatedly showing me up? - SH_

_Get off the diet, Mycroft. You’re positively nasty on it - SH_

**Don’t tell me I’ve hurt your feelings, Sherlock - M**

**John is making you soft - M**

_John wouldn’t embarrass and belittle me - SH_

**How soon we have forgotten about how he told the entirety of the Internet and mocked your lack of knowledge about the solar system - M**

_Unlike you, Mycroft, that was unintentional. Fuck off - SH_

**Sherlock, answer the phone - M**

**Ignoring me is childish, Sherlock - M**

**This is ridiculous - M**

**Oh fine. I’m sorry, Sherlock - M**

_John’s just punched me in the face, going into Irene Adler’s, can’t talk - SH_

**What? - M**

_Apology accepted. Don’t do it again. Now kindly, shut up - SH_

Irene Adler. He had never encountered a woman so comfortable in her own skin. She was all curves, laughter lines and the beginnings of crow’s feet but she straddled Sherlock and took control of the room. He couldn’t get a read on her, not even in the days after she drugged him and left him struggling on the floor, sending text messages that moaned at him.

“So. The Woman.” John’s voice always went a little lyrical when saying her name. “You like her, don’t you?”

“Don’t be absurd, John,” was Sherlock’s droll reply, adjusting the flame on the Bunsen Burner.

“You do,” his tone had turned teasing, newspaper rustling, the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric as he turned in his seat to look at Sherlock over in the kitchen. “I don’t believe for one second you don’t know how to change her message tone.”

He knew perfectly well how to change it, he just didn’t want to. He rather wanted one for when John text him, but he figured that thought was A Bit Not Good and kept that to himself. “I don’t. Don’t you have shopping to do?”

“I came back half an hour ago. I asked if you wanted anything. You said cigarettes. I told you no chance. None of that ringing a bell to you?”

“Hm?” He pretended to be fully engrossed in what he was doing. “A cigarette would be divine.” He held his hand out for one.

“Nice try. No. I didn’t buy you any.”

“Ugh, fine. Patches?”

“In the box next to your elbow. Yup, there you go. So… _The Woman_?”

“Oh for God’s sake, John.”

So maybe he liked her, a little how he liked John, but that didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything when she died and it didn’t mean anything when she came back to life. The fact that he spent that night looking to score was a fluke, just for one hit of heroin to clear the whole thing out of his mind, a complete format in lieu of a delete. He came back empty handed having forced himself to buy a packet of cigarettes instead, Mycroft’s offering of a low tar one having done nothing for him. He didn’t care that he’d ‘hardly known her’.

Mycroft having John and Mrs Hudson search the flat annoyed him and he spent the next three days in his room. It was John’s fifth time of having to do such a search since they moved in - only once had he’d found anything, much to Sherlock’s dismay.

Do you want a cup a tea?

_No - SH_

Joining me for dinner? Mrs Hudson has made a roast.

_No - SH_

_Thank you - SH_

I’ll have her make a plate for you and put it in the fridge in case you want to warm it up later.

_Fine - SH_

He sulked - if Mycroft were to be believed - for no longer than those three days. So it gave him plenty of time to recover for the shock of finding her in his bed. His pillows smelt of her perfume for an age.

Mycroft’s disappointment over him tripping over his own feet in his haste to decode her message was soothed slightly only because he cracked her phone code, viciously smug and unforgiving at being played. Nothing could erase Mycroft’s hateful words; lonely, naive, desperate to show off, mocking him for falling for the damsel in distress.

He saw himself reflected in her and his assumption that love was a serious disadvantage was only confirmed. He needed to be more careful and learn from her mistake.

The fact that he saved her life in Pakistan meant nothing.

“How was the case?” was the first thing John asked when he got home, the back of his neck sunburnt, quite a time before John lies to him about her being put into Witness Protection in America.

“Dull.”

“Fancy a cuppa?”

“Love one.”

There’s days in which nothing happens; there’s days his face appears in the newspapers and there’s days--sorry, there’s _a day_ \--that they play Cluedo and John ends up throwing the board at Sherlock’s head. He gets back into smoking, the tedium of life weighing him down, until he can’t take John’s wrinkled nose and pointed comments about lung cancer and he ends up paying off shops not to sell him any. He knows he hasn’t the will power to do it on his own.

They end up in Dartmoor on a case. He gets to both piss Mycroft off and see John act the authoritative military man and pull rank. All in all, a good day.

**Don’t do that again - M**

_What? Break into a top secret facility? - SH_

_Don’t leave yourself open to pick pocketing and I won’t have the chance to, will I? - SH_

**I’m being serious, Sherlock - M**

_No shit - SH_

The night was not as satisfactory as the day.

He’d dabbled with various drugs before settling on his two loves and had found he did not have an affinity for the ones that had questioning his own mind. He didn’t particularly enjoy seeing things that weren’t there. They had left him tense and snappy and poor John got first hand experience of such a mood. It took him longer than it should’ve to figure out that he’d been drugged.

He regretted bringing up the friend issue again. That had been laid to rest and he hadn’t meant to hurt John’s feelings. John was perhaps the only friend he had, besides Lestrade that was, and even now he wasn’t quite sure how he was meant to treat them.

He sends John a picture of Henry’s psychiatrist in apology and hates himself for it. He still ends up having to bare himself more than he’d wanted to for him to forgive him. He likes to thinks that counteracts him drugging John.

_Did Mycroft send you? - SH_

**_Does it matter? - Lestrade_ **

_Yes. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t bother asking - SH_

**_He suggested I come see you. John text him last night. He was worried about you - Lestrade_ **

_Who was? - SH_

**_They both were - Lestrade_ **

_Ridiculous. I was high - SH_

**_WHAT_ **

_Oh do calm down. I was drugged against my will. I think it was in the sugar. I’m testing a theory - SH_

**_On who? And who drugged you? Don’t scare me like that, you cock - Lestrade_ **

_In order: John, don’t know (yet) and have more faith, Lestrade - SH_

**_Does John know you’re experimenting on him? Again - Lestrade_ **

_I’m telling you in confidence. - SH_

**_Thank you for making me an accomplice - Lestrade_ **

_You’re welcome - SH_

**_I was being sarcastic - Lestrade_ **

_Shame - SH_

Turned out the drug wasn’t in the sugar and the dog wasn’t so much as monstrous as it was feral. So there was that. Scaring John half to death in the lab turned out to have been for nothing but Christ it had been funny.

“You need to stop drugging me,” John said on the train back to London. “I mean it, Sherlock.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Sherlock.” John looked at him until Sherlock met his eyes. “Stop drugging me.”

“Oh _fine_.” Sherlock had his fingers crossed underneath the table; may as well act the child he was always accused of being. “I won’t.”

John lifted a singular brow, his tone disbelieving. “You won’t?”

“Cross my heart.”

“You’re lying.” 

Sherlock sighed, dropping the innocent act. “What gave me away?” 

“The fact that you’re Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a smile and he turned to look out of the window, watching the scenery as green started to give away to construction. “I’ll keep body parts out of the fridge for a week.”

“Two.” 

“A week and a half.”

“Deal.”

Life went on as normal; they solved cases, helped the Met and John blogged about it. His website, since John moved in, had never had so many hits and from it, his inbox was flooded with requests for help, more and more each day. It just seemed one morning he woke up and that was it, they were an ‘Internet Sensation’, with posts going viral (ridiculous term) and the press turning up with far more frequency to crime scenes.

It was only one evening, as he lay on the couch, blue dressing gown on as he poked at his latest gift (cufflinks, really?) that he thought ‘huh, I’ve not thought about getting high for a while’. And he hadn’t. There had been no Danger Nights, no itching at the crook of his elbow. He hadn’t the time to be bored, to over think, and instead spent his time cherry picking whatever cases he wanted. 

John said he was turning into a bigger diva than ever before.

Sherlock made sure his next experiment involved John’s favourite cup.

He should’ve remembered that what went up had to come down and no, that wasn’t something he’d deleted.

The Reichenbach Fall, the case that made him was also the case that destroyed him.

There’s always someone smarter. Growing up, Mycroft convinced him that as the elder, he was. Usually he’d bask in Mycroft being proven wrong. Not this time.

Within the space of a case - with camera’s flashing one minute to blue and red through the windows of 221b the next - he’d gone from hero to villain in Moriarty’s twisted web. He didn’t care what Donovan or Anderson thought of him, but the idea that Lestrade might believe those lies infuriated him.

The newspaper article, Kitty showing her claws, oh… he hadn’t expected that. He didn’t need it to be published to know what was in there. Clever clever clever. He left John in the middle of the road, needing something, anything, everything to help him be better, faster, _smarter_.

For a man on the run, it was surprisingly easy to score cocaine. (He thanks it for the idea it gives him.) 

As Sherlock scored, John went to see Mycroft.

_I have to die - SH_  

**I beg your pardon? - M**

_Die. I have to die. It’s not that difficult of a concept to grasp - SH_

**Absolutely not - M**

_Untwist your knickers, Mycroft. It only needs to look like I’m dead. I have no hidden desire to actually die - SH_

**What do you need? - M**

_A body. I’m going to Molly, she’ll help - SH_

_Something to cushion a fall from Bart’s rooftop - SH_

_For you to keep an eye on John after it all- SH_

**Consider it done - M**

As Sherlock walked to the rooftop, John caught a taxi back to Barts.

Sherlock, please pick up the phone, you wanker. Your voicemail is full. Are you okay? Mrs Hudson is fine but I’m getting the feeling you knew that.

Pick up!

God. Please. Sherlock.

I’ll be at Bart’s in five. Where are you?

You’re a fucking prick, reply!

I’m going to kill you myself if you’re not already dead.

Don’t be dead.

And as Sherlock fell, John watched.

_Lazarus - SH_  

**Lazarus is go - M**


	4. can’t sustain like one half could

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick little update with an interlude... seems a bit mean posting this on a Wednesday and making you wait a week for the next chapter. I'll see you all on Wednesday for our regular update!

**_Interlude_ **

 

When he left Mycroft, he was agitated and annoyed so when his phone beeped with a message, he very nearly didn’t look at it.

**You didn’t seem very surprised - M**

The fact that he’d signed it, something he knew Sherlock did - emulating his big brother without realising it - just really fucked him off. In fact, right now, everything about Mycroft rubbed him the wrong way. For someone who claimed to be so fucking smart… God, what had he been thinking?

About what?

The reply was instantaneous.

**The article, Dr Watson - M**

Was I meant to be?

**I hadn’t realised Sherlock had told you - M**

He hasn’t. I’m not as big of an idiot as Sherlock likes to think I am.

**You never said anything - M**

John snorted at that message.

Never my business to. Clearly you didn’t think the same when you were having your little pow-wows with Moriarty.

He didn’t even feel vindicated when he didn’t get a reply.

Hours after Sherlock jumped, sitting alone and numb in 221b and surrounded by Sherlock’s things, he sent him another text. 

I hope you’re happy.

He didn’t get a reply to that one either.


	5. gravity is working against me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the ennnnnd~~! Thank you billions to those who have left kudos or commented - always makes my day. At the end of this chapter is my attempt at Photoshopping - I am by no means any good at it, but it was a fun couple of hours!

John had to believe he was dead. If he didn’t believe he was dead, then he’d be killed. If he didn’t believe that he was a fake, a fraud, then Sherlock had no doubt that John had enough faith in him to think that he could have somehow faked his own death. He couldn’t hold onto that. Because if he did? He’d be killed.

Sherlock would rather break him than kill him.

He knew John could be fixed if someone as broken as Sherlock had managed it before.

And so, Sherlock broke him.

Leaving London without John was not something new, but gone was the safety net of knowing that at some point he’d return to their comfortable flat. It’d be an age until he heard John’s (ridiculous) attempt at typing again (tap… tap… tap…). He didn’t know when the next time he’d be able to throw himself down onto what he called _his_ settee, wrapped in his dressing gown, once again.

Not that he wouldn’t get all that again, because he would. The whole reason for leaving was to dismantle Moriarty’s twisted web and he wouldn’t think of coming back until they were gone. He knew Mycroft had disposed of the two threatening Lestrade and Mrs Hudson but as for the one who’d focused on John? Nowhere to be found.

Mycroft was as often as useless as he was fat.

It was Mycroft’s ingenuous idea for him to spend his time in hiding as a woman. That lasted a full three months until he found himself waking up in some God forsaken backwash hospital in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t remember how he got there but when he woke, there was a suit waiting for him. (And then, in a duffle bag underneath the bed, men’s clothing that was far more suitable for the heat, but Sherlock appreciated the gesture anyway.)

Sherlock thought he’d be able to handle pretending to be female - he’d been in that role for a big part of his life, after all. But wearing those clothes - padded bras and blouses in exchange for shirts - and painting his face (he began to think of it as war paint in his head) had taken a toll that he didn’t envision.

They were like the days back before he’d gone to university, where he felt like he didn’t fit in his own skin, like it was too tight. It felt wrong. His arm had started to itch. He started to avoid his own reflection in the mirror. He’d started to question if all those years with John by his side had even happened at all. He started, he started; questioning, wondering, _suffocating_.

He couldn’t do it.

And so, he sourced heroin in order to forget about the fact that he simply just _couldn’t_. He had needed to feel real again. Feel like Sherlock. He remembered his hand shaking as he prepared it. He remembered hating himself even more for indulging, for being weak, for not being able to cope, not even for John. Because that’s why he was here. To protect him. To protect them all. It wasn’t about the game. It had stopped being a game with Moriarty the second he threatened those he loved.

He supposed he learnt nothing from The Woman after all.

He just thought, ‘if I can forget how much I hate this,’ needle clean as he carefully, oh so carefully, slipped it into his arm, ‘then I can carry on doing it.’

Sherlock had no problem with admitting to himself that he’d been wrong.

He’d convulsed on the floor, although he didn’t remember it, as he sank down, deeper and deeper, walls coming up around him the deeper he went into his grave; grass and dirt towering above him, roots twisting around his wrists and ankles as he struggled, forcing their way down his throat as he tried to scream until he was gagging, back arching, knee wrenching as he tried to kick out.

Mycroft had been standing above him. “Why don’t you ever think, Sherlock?” he’d said, mouth twisting into a smile, one side of his face drooping. “You silly little girl. You really are stupid.” He reached out for his hand, desperate to be free and as he grasped it, John was shoving his face right in front of his.

“You machine.” A slice of John’s flesh landed on his face as he pulled his hand away and Sherlock struggled, the obstruction in his throat thickening, teeth aching. John was getting further and further away, the deeper he went, but when he spoke his voice was right next to his ear, and goosebumps danced in its wake. “I should leave you here.”

He wanted to shout, to scream at him to not leave. “Please,” the word was garbled. “J-John.”

“What kind of perverted freak are you?” he asked, his face melting as he peered down at Sherlock, until he was nothing more than a grinning skull dressed in John’s clothes; his grave was filling up and he arched his back to try and get free, throat bared as his head tipped back. “You’ve lied to me for years. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

He was found choking on his own vomit, twitching and in soiled clothes, trapped inside his own head.

It took him a couple of weeks to recover and one more to infiltrate a Buddhist ceremony, posing as an Abbot, so he could expose the blonde smuggler who’d sold him the drugs in the first place.

He may not have found any of Moriarty’s associates but he found himself ( _oh God_ , he sounded like a Hallmark card and he’d never been so grateful that Mycroft couldn’t read minds) and there was the rest of the world to cover yet.

They agreed once every four months, Sherlock would check in. He got a burner phone and text him, the first contact he’d had with Mycroft since he’d died.

_Not dead - SH_

**I’m sorry for any duress my suggestion caused you, Sherlock - M**

**Mummy insisted I ask you to do so - M**

**I had hoped you wouldn’t - M**

_Tell mummy she’s an idiot - SH_

_Don’t - SH_

_It’s fine - SH_

_How’s John? - SH_

**Mourning - M**

_Still? - SH_

**Your death was rather traumatic to some, Sherlock - M**

_I have to go - SH_

**Is there anything I can help with? - M**

_I’m due my injection - SH_

**I’ll have instructions find their way to you - M**

A briefcase filled with that he needed was dropped off by a rather non-descript fellow dressed in a suit who, much to Sherlock’s disgust, was completed with a pair of black sunglasses. He sent one last text before destroying the phone.

_Could you be any more cliché? - SH_

It was slow going, dismantling Moriarty’s web; long nights and early flights and Sherlock had never had so much hinging on his cleverness before. For the leads that didn’t require Mycroft or his MI6 team, Sherlock gave credit to the local authorities. From Abhijeet Singh in New Delhi, who had murdered a common thief’s daughter for getting just a little too greedy with profits, to Herr Trepoff in Germany who had killed his own wife once she’d found out that his freelance business was more in the line of murder than architecture.

He made sure his name and face was kept away from any press and absolutely refused to accept any credit.

When he set out, he hadn’t expected that it would take so long. The days melted away to weeks and months, until a whole year had passed and another one had crept up upon him. He lost a full month in Serbia.

Looking into Baron Maupertuis took more time and energy than he’d anticipated and his ignored transportation got the better of him when he was caught sneaking into a compound linked to Maupertuis; he wasn’t as aware as he should’ve been, he missed the guard change of all things. Stupid, _stupid_ Sherlock.

Just like Mycroft always said he was.

 


	6. send me to my knees

Being beaten and tortured was never on his to do list. Being left half naked (oh, how he’d gone slack in his restraints when they’d stopped at his shirt) and hanging in his own soiled, sweaty clothes was never something that Sherlock planned on doing. While he could sometimes be rather… loose with his hygiene, and only when on a case, he was always rather meticulous with his hair if nothing else.

Mycroft would like to think it was because of him that they were now sitting on a plane out of this God forsaken country, but without Sherlock using his own (depleted, tired) wit, he knew he’d still be hanging by his wrists in that dungeon.

They didn’t speak on the plane.

Not because he was ignoring his brother - who absolutely could’ve got him out of there sooner, the wanker - but because he spent the whole trip curled up on the seat, a thick blanket wrapped around him, with his head pressed against the window as he drifted off.

At some point, unbeknown to him, Mycroft had laid the seat back as he slept.

Having his hair cut, his back seen to and wrapping his coat around him like an armour made baring the news about John a lot easier. This is what he knew would happen, logically. John would move on. He couldn’t sit in mourning, not forever, not for him.

It didn’t mean he had to like, or even believe it.

Which is how he found himself sat in a taxi going to The Landmark Hotel, Marylebone Road, his back jarring with every bump in the road.

**Please do tell me you were joking about the cake, Sherlock - M**

_Of course I was - SH_

_I’m going to surprise him at the restaurant instead - SH_

**Surprise how? - M**

_You have your cameras. Sit back and watch, brother dear. We both know how much you dislike ‘wading in’ - SH_

**Don’t be unreasonable - M**

**I did come for you, Sherlock. As soon as you missed your check-in - M**

_You also sat there watching, as I was tortured. I stick by the fact that you were enjoying it. You could have helped me sooner. I wasn’t exactly enjoying my time - SH_

**I had to wait for you to give me an opening. I knew you would. It was obvious that his wife was cheating on him. I knew you’d tell him, leaving me to have us both safely extracted - M**

_Shut up, I’m at the restaurant - SH_

**Don’t do it, Sherlock. It’s a stupid idea - M**

_Why stray away from a life-long label, Mycroft. Shut up - SH_

All in all, Sherlock ended up with a broken nose, ripped stitches and was nearly overwhelmed with the feeling of utter stupidity. He had honestly thought that John would be happy to see him - who wouldn’t be happy to see someone they previously thought dead? The (very poor, honestly, how did it take him so long to see through it?) disguise, he thought, was humorous. Right? Except John had looked at him like he was seeing a ghost - which, okay, Sherlock understood that - but when he did nothing but clench his fist and grit his words out from between his teeth, he’d started to babble. Honest to God babble. Tried to lighten the mood. Wasn’t that what people did? Try to lighten moods? He ended up with John’s hands about his throat.

If he came across as uncaring and brash, it was only because he just wanted things to be as they had been, here and now; he was impatient and dismissive of troublesome feelings that would only prolong the length of time it would take for John to move back into Baker Street and for them both to resume their lives that had previously been held in suspended animation.

He was _so fucking ready_ to put the last two years behind him and maybe it had been wrong of him to mock his moustache but really, come on, it was utterly ridiculous and what else was he meant to focus on? He couldn’t think about the hurt he caused him. He was tired and scarred and why was this woman following John arou--oh. _Oh_. She was with John, John was with her; he’d been ready to propose to her. He had been in the middle of doing so before Sherlock’s ‘big reveal’. He’d seen but not observed.

John was comfortable enough to want to ask her to marry him and she, in turn, was comfortable enough in her position as his girlfriend to be certain she’d be able to change his mind.

And where, Sherlock thought as sat alone in a taxi heading to Barts, would he fit into John’s new life?

He let Molly know he was back, found Greg and got a hug that hurt but one that he all but melted into, before letting Mrs Hudson know that she had a new old tenant for 221b if she’d have him. After the screaming - a sound that made his teeth hurt - she had him down in her flat and all but piled tea and biscuits on him, tutting about the weight he’d lost and bemoaning the fact that he’d come back a day too late because “John’s _proposing_ , to a _woman_. Can you believe it? A woman, Sherlock. And so soon after you, love. Oh, if only he’d waited a little longer. Take another biscuit,” she all but pushed the plate under his nose, clucking. “You’re wasting away, dear.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to correct her about John. He never had - he left that to John. He protested enough for the both of them.

**_Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again - Lestrade_ **

_I knew you’d miss me - SH_

**_Like a second arsehole on my elbow - Lestrade_ **

_Charming as always - SH_

And then, some hours later, clearly after a pint or four, Sherlock got another text as he idly poked at some long forgotten experiments that Mrs Hudson hadn’t been able to find and throw away.

**_I did miss you, just wnted you to know that_ **

**_Your like a son to me_ **

_Go to sleep, George. You’re drunk - SH_

**_GREG you wanker_ **

_Gregory if I’m feeling particularly impertinent? - SH_

**_When are you not?_ **

_You wound me - SH_

_Your company is more tolerable than most - SH_

**_Is that your way of sayin you missed me to? I’m touched_ **

_Your grammar is offensive. Go to sleep. You need to be bright eyed and bushy tailed, Inspector - you need to find me a case - SH_

**_Goodnight Sherlock_ **

_Goodnight, Detective Inspector - SH_

He ignored the one time Mycroft tried to call him. He wasn’t in the mood to hear him gloat tonight.

The next day brought Operation and a game of Deductions (he’d only been slightly put out when Mycroft didn’t rise to his bait when he’d said he’d never spoken to a woman) and the morning had been… well, it had been good. Fun, almost. Other than the day previous when he’d been cranky - not that he’d admit it - and sore, he hadn’t seen Mycroft in an age. It had been fun to tease him.

The afternoon was filled with more tea, studying the pictures on his wall and texting Molly after accepting a case; he’d done enough cases on his own for a lifetime and if John wasn’t going to help him then he’d ask someone else. He’d text him and got a rather blunt reply telling him to fuck off… charming. Molly was important to him, insomuch as people who weren’t John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were. (And if he lies to her later, it’s okay. He’s simply making up for all the shit he’s put her through.)

He was shameless in taking advantage of her schoolgirl crush on him. There was something satisfying about having someone feel that way for him; it was like the ultimate acceptance of being a man.

He went to the case he’d told Lestrade he wanted him to find, and he spent the afternoon with Molly (wrong, it felt all wrong; he was trying to jam a puzzle piece where it didn’t fit) and it was familiar as it was simple. He couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

Not when Lestrade looked so proud of himself.

Oh but the Tube case? He knew he could lure John in with that, surely. Which is why he didn’t mind saying goodbye to Molly. She humoured him today and that, if nothing else, deserved his thanks.

Of course, everything had to go to shit because someone decided to kidnap John and send a text to Mary (Mary? Why Mary? How did they know she knew what a skip code was? How did she know what a skip code wa--no, he had to find John, this was far more important) and he’d gone from having his first hot meal since he’d been back to stealing a motorcycle and screaming it down the streets of London to get to John.

He saves John - it was him who pulled him out of the fire, _him_ \- and by the time he gets home, his chips are long cold and Sherlock feels too sick to eat anyway.

Thanks. For today. Tonight, even.

_You’re welcome - SH_

You’re still a dick.

_I have a case. Come by tomorrow? - SH_

If I’m not busy.

_You’re not - SH_

_I checked with Mary. - SH_

_You’ve been signed off work for a week - SH_

_A whole Tube car - car, not carriage, did you know? - went missing and it’s something to do with the terror alert I’m sure - SH_

_Have I given you enough to tempt you? - SH_

_Could be dangerous - SH_

Jesus, Sherlock. Enough with the texts. I’ll see you tomorrow. Ten?

_Perfect. Don’t forget to thank Mary too. She helped - SH_

I’m planning on doing so if you ever stop texting.

_How are my texts stopping you from saying thank you? - SH_

I’m planning on doing so. How does a text stop that? I’m planning on doing so. Oh. The answer comes to him like a punch to the gut. _Oh_.

_Oh. Never mind. I’ll see you at ten, John - SH_

He fell asleep that night on the settee, his stomach feeling hollow.

His parents visiting was something he’d been expecting and he was happy they left when John came around (he ignored Mummy’s look). And to think - two days ago he was being tortured and here he was, rushing off to an abandoned Tube station after spending a day pouring over maps with John, Mrs Hudson taking away forgotten cups of tea and keeping them both watered and fed. This is what he’d missed. This is what he needed. John and his cases, solving them together. So John wouldn’t be moving back into 221b, that was fine. He could live with this. This wasn’t something he could lose. Before John, he’d survived, coasted on by and hadn’t realised what he’d been missing. He wouldn’t take him for granted again.

Which might explain why he was such a dick to him when they found the bomb.

_Of course_ it had an off switch.

He just desperately needed him to forgive him. He needed things to be normal. If the only way to get that forgiveness was by pretending they were both going to be blown up.

“You’re not forgiven,” was the first thing John said to him as they sat in a taxi back to Baker Street.

“I am too.” He winced as they went over a speed bump and really, Sherlock should know better.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Sherlock pulled his coat around him as the car pulled up. “Absolutely fine. Got time for a cuppa?”

John didn’t look convinced. He pulled out his wallet to pay the driver as Sherlock opened the door and he could feel John’s eyes on him. “I s’pose so, yeah. Or something stronger?”

By the time John had finished paying the cabbie, Sherlock had poured them both a brandy and he thrust the glass at John as soon as he walked through the door. “Something stronger.”

“Let’s see it then.”

Both of Sherlock’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t give me that look,” John flapped his hand at him, a little flustered. “I didn’t mean… not like, shut up, Sherlock. Show me where you’re hurt. You’re walking funny.”

“You want to see it… because I’m walking funny.” Sherlock gave an exaggerated nod. “Oh how people will talk.”

John clearly wanted to laugh but Sherlock was left impressed at his resolve. “Your back, you’ve hurt it. Doctor, remember?” Grabbing hold of chair as he put his drink down, he presented it to Sherlock, the back of it facing John. “Take your shirt off and strad--sit on the chair backwards, shut up, Sherlock. Jesus. Sit down. Don’t make me strip yo--there is literally no way of saying this without you giggling. Behave. I’m being serious here.” Even so, Sherlock could see the laughter that was caught on the edge of his lips.

“There really is,” Sherlock countered, smugly.

“Sit.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it off to one side, straddling the chair, arms resting on top of the backrest, chin on his arms. There was no way he was getting out of this and a little part of him was revelling in the attention. He spoke as John walked around him. “I’m fine. It’s been seen to.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and Sherlock tensed. “Jesus Christ.”

“Let’s not be dramatic.”

“What the _hell_ happened?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t on holiday.”

“Christ.”

“You’ve expressed as much.” He went to get up but John pushed down on his shoulder, his grip ironclad. “It’s _fine_ , John.”

“Fine? This is so far from fine, Sherlock. Was your back like this at the restaurant?” Sherlock didn’t say a word and clearly this was evidence enough. “Fuck. Shit. Why didn’t you sa--God, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know.”

The sink was filled with water, the sound of rummaging and a first aid kit was placed on the table before the swipe of a warm cloth was against his back. “A couple of the stitches have opened.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I did lie to you about being dead. Call it even?”

There was a strangled laugh behind him. A beat of silence. “I’m ready to listen now.”

“To what?”

“To the how, to the why. To what you’ve been doing these last two years.”

Sherlock smiled against his arms and told him.

From that moment on, he all but had John back. He may sleep somewhere else (not all the time) and he was forever reminding him that he couldn’t drop everything just because a midget and a giant fancied running around London killing people. But they were John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John again and although Sherlock wasn’t particular to sharing, he did it anyway.

He helped with the wedding. Perhaps he was a bit manic in his helping, but he did it all the same. John was happy with Mary. Who was he to deny him this? He couldn’t knock him down, not again. Which is why he forced himself to not deduce Mary, not from the first night he’d met her; he didn’t want to know if John didn’t want to know. She made John happy and more than tolerated Sherlock, which was more than could be said of any of his other girlfriends.

John asked him to be his Best Man. Sherlock googled ‘symptoms of a mini stroke’ once he’d left, convinced his period of stunned silence was something more.

His Best Man. He’d never been anyone’s best anything. And here he was, being told he was both wanted as a Best Man and a Best Friend.

Was it selfish to wish for more?

John’s not gay. How many times had John stated that? He’s not gay.

Maybe if Sherlock had been normal, stayed the gender his mother’s womb had assigned him, then John wouldn’t be marrying Mary. Sherlock liked Mary well enough, make no mistake; as far as John’s girlfriends--no, wife now--were concerned, she was the best of a bad bunch. But he was also sickeningly, disgustingly jealous of her. If he was normal and the very thought burned him… if he was normal, maybe he would have been allowed to keep John forever.

Sherlock belonged to no one but he wouldn’t mind being John Watson’s.

He filled his time with napkin making, seating arrangement, bridesmaid shoes and planning John’s Stag Do instead of entertaining ridiculous thoughts. Perhaps he should’ve invited some John’s other friends, but he’d been sharing him enough recently. They could fuck off.

It may have only been a drunken game but when John asked if he was pretty, he’d wanted to say yes, but that wasn’t playing the game. When John has asked “am I a woman?” he’d snorted with laughter because, _irony_. He came so close to blurting out the truth that night but his drunken tongue slipped over the syllables.

**_I can’t believe you spent the night in the Drunk Tank - Lestrade_ **

_Don’t text. The message tone is particularly grating today - SH_

**_It’s nice to see you having fun, is all I’m saying - Lestrade_ **

_I’ll be getting an ASBO next - SH_

**_You’ve never had one? Colour me surprised - Lestrade_ **

_You are no longer my favourite Detective Inspector - SH_

**_Words can hurt, Sherlock - Lestrade_ **

_Dimmock. He’s my favourite - SH_

**_Dimmock couldn’t handle you for a single case. You’d miss me - Lestrade_ **

_Dimmock - SH_

When it had come to his speech, he’d babbled his way through the first part of it; he loved to be the centre of attention, he’d never deny that, but having a whole room focused on him on a day he wasn’t exactly at his best? It was far from a pleasant experience. The day got immeasurably better once murder became involved. It gave him something other than handing John off to Mary to focus on.

Until it was over, that is, and he was deducing Mary’s pregnancy.

Throughout the lead up to the wedding, Sherlock had convinced himself that nothing was going to change. John would go off on his sex holiday and then things would go right back to how they had been. With John splitting his time between him and Mary, with cases and takeaway and okay, he was a little lonely in Baker Street but it was nothing like how it was when he’d been on the run.

He looked around, trying to find someone else to just spend his time with, but Janine was dancing with Mr Dumped, Molly was with Sherlock 2.0 (John’s nickname, not his) and Lestrade was too busy doing something he was sure was considered dancing in some circles.

So he left, throwing his coat on as he walked away.

Things would never be the same. Sherlock was not as important as a baby. Not even he was as conceited to think so.

**You’re leaving early? - M**

_Observant as ever, Mycroft - SH_

**Is everything okay? - M**

_Mary is pregnant - SH_

**You knew this day would come - M**

_Leave me alone. I’m not in the mood - SH_

**Don’t do anything foolish, Sherlock - M**

Don’t do anything foolish? Like fall in love with someone who didn’t want him?

_I think it’s a little late for that - SH_

Sherlock didn’t get high that night, but it was a close thing. His skin itched and the packet of cigarettes he bought and smoked through did nothing to ease it.

He let himself fall headfirst into Lady Smallwood’s case. He let himself pretend that’s why he fell back into old habits. Sure, it was one way to get to Charles Augustus Magnussen but it wasn’t the only way. Turning on the charm with Janine wasn’t difficult either - he knew she wanted him for the story and he wanted her for the pass into Magnussen’s office.

In all honestly, he hadn’t wanted John to find him - he was rather hoping Lestrade would burst in. John didn’t need to see him dirty and on a come down but he couldn’t help himself from piping up when he heard his voice. Would he take him too? Granted, he’d distanced himself from John after the wedding. Sherlock knew it wasn’t a choice for John and he didn’t want to watch him pick his family over him, so he simply made his decision for him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” John all but shouted after sending off the kid he’d come to originally pick up. Sherlock bristled when he looked him up and down.

“What does it look like?”

“Are you high right now? Are you actually high right now? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Right now? No. I’m not high right now.”

“ _What the hell do you think you’re doing?!_ Jesus, Sherlock. Jesus Christ.”

“It’s a case. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“My knickers in a twi--?” John broke off here, clearly too angry to say anything more. “Out. Get out. Come on, you’re coming with me. You go AWOL and then I find you here and you’ve the audacity to tell me it’s for a _case_?”

“It is!”

“Out! We’re leaving, get out. Jesus fucking Christ. You’ve been clean for so long. I can’t believe you’d be this selfish.”

“ **Me?** ” the word was out before he could stop it and before John could call him out on it, he stormed past him.

At Barts, he did the drug test. He knew he would fail it but John was insistent. A horrible part of him was drowning in attention. Until Molly was slapping him. Good Lord, you tell someone they’re important and all of a sudden they grow a backbone. One slap was enough. Two proved her point. The others? Excessive.

And, ow. Painful.

Mycroft sweeping his flat was unnecessary. He’d never find his stash anyway. But he had to poke and poke and really? Clearly the workout sessions had stopped.

Mycroft text him as he flicked the shower on.

**Brutality now? - M**

_I was hardly brutal - SH_

**I’m calling mummy - M**

Aren’t you too old to be tattling? - SH

**You’ve been squandering your allowance on drugs. I’m entitled to tell them what their money is being spent on - M**

_It’s for a case, I apparently cannot repeat this enough - SH_

**A case you have been told to stay away from - M**

_You’re not my keeper, brother - SH_

**Of your finances, I believe you will find that I am - M**

_Go find a goldfish and stop bothering me - SH_

**I’m watching you, Sherlock - M**

_God, I hope not. I’m about to get in the shower - SH_

He kept his boxers on because he knew Janine would play up to John being about and he wasn’t disappointed.

Maybe it was just him, but John seemed a tiny bit jealous. Sherlock was unforgiving in his smugness.

From out of all this sorry affair, John’s marriage, Lady Smallwood’s case, Charles Magnussen, the last thing he’d expected was to be shot by Mary. Mary Watson. _Liar_.

Charles Magnussen coming to visit him in the hospital while he was drugged up to the gills was something else he had not expected. Where was John? He’d been there the last time he’d opened his eyes, chattering non-stop about nonsense but the timber of his voice had been soothing.

Instead, he was now in a room filled with flowers and a man that his best friend’s wife had been attempting to kill, his clammy hands all over his, and even though Sherlock was drugged to the nines and the world was a bright, hazy mess, he still felt uneasy at the touch. His words were like oil on water and honestly, he didn’t catch all of it, his eyes refusing to stay open no matter how much he fought.

The comment about his hands -- “a musician’s hands; an artist’s; a woman’s?” -- made his stomach drop even more than the kiss to them or how close he got to his face, whispering his blackmail that all boiled down to JohnJohnJohn. Pressure points, indeed. He would have liked to have said something in reply, something that bellied the rising nausea he felt at his proximity, and he closed his eyes to gather himself but when he opened them again, he was alone in his room with nothing more than his thoughts. Which is why their next meeting was out in a public place and at a time that he had most of his processes online and functioning. ( _Most_ , because, well, the glasses weren’t anything but glasses, so clearly he hadn’t been firing on all cylinders.)

Mary’s visit, on the other hand, hardly ranked. _Obviously_ he was going to tell John; the last time he hadn’t told him something important, things may have turned out pretty damn good for her but Sherlock had nearly lost everything.

And even though it was here and then and _now_ that he’d been given the perfect opportunity to convince John to leave Mary, he didn’t. He couldn’t. She’d tried to kill him after all (yes, kill him, it had been intentional) and all he needed to do was act the broken bird and he’d have John back in their flat, John’s chair that he’d moved back permanently rather than just in the interim. He’d got rid of it in the first place because the emptiness kept distracting him.

But Mary made him happy. John wanted Mary more than he wanted Sherlock - he’d made that much abundantly clear. Mary was pregnant with John’s baby. John loved Mary. Mary, in her own twisted way, loved John in return. He was happy with her. He was starting a family with her. Those were things that Sherlock couldn’t give John.

Which is why, at Leinster Gardens, he gave her an out; he didn’t care if she knew or not that he didn’t believe a word he was saying.

**_Jesus Sherlock, I’ve only just got John’s message. I’m on my way - Lestrade_ **

_I’m absolutely fine. They restarted my heart before we even got into the ambulance. They’ve got me on the good drugs - SH_

**_That’s your idea of reassurance? - Lestrade_ **

**_How the fuck are you allowed morphine? - Lestrade_ **

_I’m in pain. Don’t tell me you wish me to suffer? I have been shot, you know - SH_

_Words can hurt, Lestrade - SH_

**_LOL_ **

**_You’re such a wanker. I’m still coming over - Lestrade_ **

_Are you really ‘laughing out loud’? - SH_

**_Do you really believe Mary didn’t mean to kill you? - Lestrade_ **

_Touché. Perfect parry. I see John’s been telling tales - SH_

**_You’re avoiding the question - Lestrade_ **

_Bring ice cream; I’m hungry - SH_

**_Stop avoiding the question - Lestrade_ **

_And jelly - SH_

**_Sherlock_ **

_No - SH_

_Now bring me my ice cream and jelly - SH_

**_No you’re not going to answer my question or no, you don’t believe she didn’t mean to kill you? - Lestrade_ **

_You’re the Detective. Figure it out. Where are you? - SH_

**_Tesco, getting your damn ice cream and jelly. I’ll be there in fifteen depending on the traffic - Lestrade_ **

_Fantastic - SH_

John and Mary stopped speaking and John spent most of his time at Baker Street with Sherlock. Even though Sherlock knew this wouldn’t last - his meeting with Magnussen already arranged, the case, _Mary’s case_ , coming first above all else - it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it.

“For the absolute last time, John,” he snapped, temper fraying, his body not adjusting well to detox. “Mary did not intend to kill me. It was a calculated move on her half. She was protecting you.”

He didn’t enjoy all of their conversations.

“You’re surprised I’m not convinced? You nearly died. Twice because of her.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Oh so that makes everything all right?”

Sherlock waved an agitated hand in the air, looking down the hallway to his bedroom. Behind the second brick in the exposed wall underneath his bed, he had a stash of morphine. Perhaps just a little? For this conversation? “We have been over this, John. Christmas is next week.”

John blinked at the sudden shift in conversation. “Since when did you take note of Christmas.”

“Since Mummy invited us both for Christmas Dinner. Or rather, us four.”

“Four?”

“You, Mary, myself and Mycroft. Obviously.”

“Obviously my arse. I’m not bringing Mary.”

“You are. Mummy insists. You can tell her no if you wish.” Sherlock snorted at his own joke. You did not tell Mummy no.

“I will. What’s her number?” John actually had his phone in his hand.

“Don’t be absurd. You call her and she’ll convince you to bring your sister along before you know what’s happened. Just,” Sherlock winced as he shifted where he sat, waving off John when it looked like he was going to come over to help him up. “Come. It’ll be good for you both. It’s Christmas. Sugar Plums and mistletoe. Yes?”

“I’ll think about it. Where’re you off to?”

“Bed.” Morphine. “I’m tired.”

John brought Mary around for Christmas. He’d only admit it to himself, but he was a little disappointed in John. It wasn’t John’s fault that he believed him. Why wouldn’t John believe Sherlock? He was the man who had been smart enough to convince the whole world he was dead. If Sherlock said Mary didn’t mean to kill him, then Mary didn’t mean to kill him. If it wasn’t all so fucked up, Sherlock would find it all terribly amusing.

Why had he convinced John to not look at that USB stick? He had. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told John he wouldn’t love her anymore after looking. She’d slaughtered children for money, extorted men for ridiculous amounts of money and slit the throats of dignitaries all in the name of a job.

It was John bringing Mary along that had him taking that final, irreversible step, outside the patio doors to Appledore.

He’d fired a gun before but never at someone. He’d never killed someone before.

He didn’t kill Magnussen for Mary; he didn’t kill him to keep her secrets. He killed him for John. If anyone deserved to be happy, it wasn’t Sherlock. It certainly wasn’t Mary. He would throw everything away to ensure that John Watson got his happily ever after.

One of them had to.

He was taken away in cuffs and he caught sight of Mycroft’s pale face; he didn’t have any quirky, sassy comments for him. He was detained underground, the room bare baring for a single bed, the door and the constant _blink blink blink_ of constant surveillance.

They took his phone, wallet, shoes, scarf, coat and belt off him least he hang himself with it. He was lying on the bed, fingers steepled underneath his chin, thoughts turned inwards when the door to his cell was opened and in walked his brother.

Sherlock cracked open an eye, glanced at him and then closed it again. “You should’ve brought an umbrella.”

“No, Sherlock.” The door shut behind him, a heavy sound. “We are not playing games.”

“No? Shame. I was hoping you’d bring Operation with you.”

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.” He imitated his sharp tone.

“Will you just be serious for once!”

Sherlock opened both eyes now, sitting up fluidly, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forwards just a little. “There’s nothing more serious than death.”

“Murder, Sherlock. I think you’ll find that was murder.”

“Oh, I wasn’t on about what I did,” he said the words on an exhale. “I was talking about what you’re here to tell me.”

“I still see you as a child.”

“We’re changing subjects now? Wonderful.”

“I’m sorry.”

Now, Sherlock frowned. “Sorry? What on earth are you sorry for? Sorry because I killed someone who, quite frankly, deserved to be eradicated from this world or sorry for seeing me as a child? Do explain.”

“I’m sorry I never noticed.”

“What on _earth_ are you talking about, Mycroft?”

“I see you as a child, knowing what I know now. It was clear you were not, as Mummy affectionately called it, just a ‘tomboy’. You were always different, Sherlock. Refusing to wear your own clothes and instead stealing mine until Mummy bought you them in your own size; insisting we call you Sherlock. You were such a troublesome, headstrong, difficult child. There were so many signs. I should have seen it for what it was. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock, presented with the apology he’d always wanted, didn’t know what to say in reply. “You’re sending me to Eastern Europe, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock inhaled, lips quirking. “I’m not really cut out for prison.”

“No.”

“Very well. When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Will you be there to see me off?”

“Yes.”

“John?”

“It can be arranged.”

“I-” Sherlock cut himself off, ignoring the thickness at the back of his throat. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded before turning on his heel, making a signal at the camera. The door buzzed. “I meant what I said,” he said now, hand on the door handle. “Your loss will break my heart.”

Even if Sherlock knew how to reply, Mycroft didn’t give him the chance to. The door sealed behind him before Sherlock could even open his mouth.

Saying his goodbyes to John was both infinitely easier and far more difficult. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, he said to him, when really he wanted to tell him the truth; Willow Sherlock Sheila (and that was where _Shirley_ came from, thank you Mycroft for the constant reminder, prick) before he’d had Mycroft change his records. But even though he knew was heading off to his death, he still couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even tell him he wasn’t coming back; he’d looked so relieved that he wasn’t going to be sent to a maximum security facility for the rest of his days.

Sherlock, for the first time in his life, was relieved that John was not all that bright.

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.” It was the only bit of himself that he would give John. He had meant to say more. He wasn’t talking about potential baby names.

“It’s not,” John answered on a laugh, but there was something else there; something soft and understanding and for a moment, it threw Sherlock.

The thought that John may not be as dim as he’d thought was rather terrifying.

It was all a bit anticlimactic in the end. They had barely taken off, Sherlock watching England shrink below, when the phone call came. Hanging up on Mycroft, he handed the mobile back over to Mycroft’s minion and pressed his fingertips to his lips. 

Well. Like he’d told John. Killing him was _so_ two years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we have it... the end. Until the next season that is (if anyone would be interested in that?). The scene with CAM, can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fNpCm1y1xEk and it is so incredibly creepy it's unreal. I was thinking about, in the mean time, doing some other like offshoots of this within the same universe? Whatcha think? Any suggestions, ideas or feedback would be received with open arms. And once more: to those who have commented, fav'd, sub'd or kudos... I thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm usually a one-shot kinda gal, but I'd thought I'd give this whole multi-chapter thing a whirl. For the record: I am not a FTM or a MTF, but I wanted to write something different and it isn't my intention to offend. If you see something that doesn't sit right, that looks or feels wrong, then let me know, okay? I'm all about the learning. 
> 
> This will be updated every Wednesday - like a little mid-week "yay, it's nearly Friday, you're nearly there, you can do it!"
> 
> BETA read by the amazing Star and any mistakes remaining are mine and mine alone.


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